


Every reason to be a bad night

by robotboy



Series: The Doksany Stories [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Episode Related, Episode: s01e01 Friends and Enemies, M/M, MuskiesRewatch, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Porthos walks Athos home, and Athos takes Porthos to bed.





	Every reason to be a bad night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of ficlets written as episode tie-ins along with tumblr's MuskiesRewatch. Each fic takes place in one timeline, but they can be skipped or can stand alone. There's different ships throughout, with established Inseparables eventual OT4 endgame.
> 
> They'll be a bit messy, but they'll be weekly. Stories are cross-posted from doksany.tumblr.com

There were nights in Paris when it felt like there was nobody else in the world.

Porthos took Athos home through one.

Athos was conscious, so Porthos only had to keep a hand on his neck to guide him through the streets. Athos leaned into the touch, letting the slightest pressure from Porthos’ thumb steer him the right way. His arm was slung around Porthos’ waist, clenching Porthos’ hip occasionally when he lost his balance. Athos talked little at the best of times, so Porthos was left to his thoughts on their meandering journey back to the barracks.

Porthos would be glad to see the back of this day. They all heard Athos urging the firing squad to shoot. It may have sounded—even to Athos—like an honourable man facing death without hesitance. It echoed the many times Athos had thrown himself into a fight, not recklessly but without nearly enough care for his life. He put himself in harm's way for Aramis and Porthos more than he had to. It gave him his dangerous edge as a swordsman, but Porthos found new greys in Aramis' beard every time Athos almost martyred himself for them. It didn’t have to be so often.

Porthos held Athos a little firmer, half wanting to wring his neck for his foolishness, and half to remind Athos he was wanted, needed—loved. That there was a future for him, with his brothers, and Porthos would guide him to it as he guided him around the puddles that hid in the gloom of Paris at night.

A grey cat darted across their path, causing both of them to stumble. Athos bumped into Porthos’ side and he was warm, breathing, alive, breaking Porthos from his introspection.

It was too easy to worry about  _if_ —any of them could lose their lives on a given day if they had not blocked a sword, if their pistols had backfired, if they had missed a warning shout. If a boy had not arrived with the lead they needed and a familiar penchant to charge headlong into danger.

D’Artagnan was one to watch. That was better than wondering what may or may not have happened to Athos, since Athos’ most pressing problem now was not twisting an ankle.

Porthos had liked D’Artagnan immediately, though he knew Aramis would warn him for trusting too easily. Porthos snorted to himself: Aramis had invited the boy to bed at the first opportunity. Though he’d hardly have been the first of Aramis’ inadvisable conquests, Porthos found himself glad D’Artagnan was apparently oblivious to being propositioned. The game of cards he had played with D’Artagnan afterwards had shown Porthos the boy was quick-witted and charming, if a little brash. Porthos was sure D’Artagnan had noticed him cheating, and surer still that D’Artagnan knew Porthos had let him win eventually. Porthos had been more careful about flirting—though the boy was beautiful, and he had to admire Aramis’ brazen attempt—lest he risk a second scolding from Athos in as many days.

Athos, as sparingly as he ever showed it, liked D’Artagnan. That, more than the esteem of either himself or Aramis, promised to Porthos that D’Artagnan could be one of them. A Musketeer, or Inseparable—Porthos indulged himself in imagining both, with Athos too drunk to have anything to say on the matter.

Porthos propped Athos on the wall as he unlocked the garrison’s side door. Athos did not pitch over in the time it took him—a good sign. The moment of truth would come when they reached the stairs to Athos’ quarters. If the walk from the tavern had not sobered him enough to navigate them safely, it was easier for Athos to share Porthos’ bed on the lower floor.

‘Easier’ was the excuse, used between them and to anyone asking. Porthos’ quarters were at the furthest end of the hall, adjacent to Aramis’. Unlike Aramis’ room, it had few windows, but it was larger. A few years earlier, Porthos had squirrelled away enough money for a decently-sized bed, owing—he claimed—to how big he was. Though Athos seemed to prefer Spartan furnishing as a symptom of his own self-punishment, and Aramis called a night spent alone to be a failure, Porthos found either—and occasionally both—would find a way into the decently-sized bed.

They paused at the foot of the stairs. Athos groaned softly, and burrowed into Porthos’ chest.

That was telling enough. Porthos huffed a silent laugh and took them both down the hall, Athos’ step growing more steady. He arched into Porthos’ hand at the base of his skull, pressing more surely into the line of Porthos’ hip.

With the door shut firmly behind them, Athos took Porthos’ lapels in both hands and pulled him close. Porthos kept himself open while Athos’ head twisted, searching, as though he’d forgotten where to find Porthos’ mouth. When their lips met, Athos’ shoulders slumped and Porthos caught them in his hands, keeping him from sinking. On a bad night—and this had every reason to be a bad night—Athos might sink to his knees, determined to be useful; or feel used. Porthos had never asked for the reasoning behind it, though it was easy enough to guess. Athos was good, if messy, but it left something unsettled in Porthos the few times it had happened. It fed something in Athos that shouldn’t be fed.

Instead, Porthos held him firmly, where he could be kissed, and poured into it all the concern and the fondness Athos would not have accepted in words. Aramis had warned him of that once—‘Your heart shines bright enough to blind him, my darling’—but Porthos could not bear to hold all of it back. Not when Athos was so reckless, nor so cruel to himself. If Athos shied away on occasion, overwhelmed, Porthos still slept better knowing Athos could be sure of something.

Athos kissed with the same recklessness he fought with. He made a cursory fumble at the toggles of Porthos’ doublet and Porthos indulged him, helping to open it before guiding Athos back to the bed. Athos shed boots, hat, and belts, nuzzling at Porthos’ waist as Porthos undressed. He folded his things, in spite of Athos’ impatience, before helping Athos with buttons and laces, until they were in nothing but shirts. Athos gripped Porthos’ shirt so hard the linen groaned, kissing him again. His knees—surprisingly sharp—bumped at Porthos until they both tumbled onto the mattress, Porthos half-crushing him before finding his balance. Athos didn’t seem to mind, intent on pressing his mouth all over Porthos’ skin, even as Porthos could feel him scowling in concentration.

When Athos was willing to take, Porthos would give, and give, in the hope that it would be enough for all the other times. It was good to have Athos be a little greedy, especially as he pulled Porthos on top of him.

Athos’ hips writhed. He was half-hard already, grinding up with an urgency Porthos knew well. It got like this, sometimes, for Porthos and Aramis too. After a fight, when one’s blood turned from hot to sour, and one’s nerves skittered out of one’s skin, nothing could make a man feel  _alive_  again like this.

Athos took them both in hand. He coaxed himself and Porthos to hardness, clumsy but focused, hips moving in some indecipherable pattern as his shallow breaths puffed against Porthos’ cheek. Porthos’ grip returned to the back of Athos’ neck, keeping him close, guiding him again. Athos melted into the touch, his short grunts growing longer as he worked them together. A rumbling grew in Porthos’ chest and Athos threw his head back, hips stuttering as he came. Without pause he adjusted his grasp on Porthos, still panting. A leg wrapped around Porthos to bring his weight down on Athos and trap Porthos’ cock between them. Porthos gave himself over to it and growled through his orgasm, clutching Athos’ neck a little too tight—though it was likely that’s what Athos wanted. Before rolling away, Porthos steeled himself himself to reach for a rag and wipe them both, Athos barely seeming to notice as he heaved a deep sigh. The sound of him, with air in his lungs and something close to satisfied, burned brighter in Porthos than the afterglow. Athos was already half-asleep, nestling into Porthos’ underarm as the blanket was pulled over him. Porthos kissed his hair, and Athos hummed with pleasure. Porthos smiled—it was far more than Athos would have done if he were any less exhausted—and let sleep pull him under as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to subscribe to the whole series for updates. I haven't posted a WIP in years, so please hold me to my promise to finish!


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